


Something Else He Wanted to Say

by ChelsaOfBakerStreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChelsaOfBakerStreet/pseuds/ChelsaOfBakerStreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson needed to tell Sherlock something but now it's too late. Or is it? When John goes back to pack up his things he sees an item that can't possibly be in 221B Baker street. John starts the hunt to find the one person he cares most about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rated E for future chapters. Also, I do not own Sherlock Holmes, any characters within nor BBC.

_There's something else you wanted to say_. The words had been permeating John's mind for weeks now, it was all he could really think about after having moved back into his old, bleary and boring flat he once occupied. The thought of returning to 221B Baker Street was more than John could take, even though it had been over four months since Sherlock, well John didn't want to think about that. He had gone back to see his therapist and she was the one who hand planted this thought into his mind. She had forced him to open up about Sherlock's death. She had read the one underlying thing that had been knawing at him for months. There was an unasked question between him and Sherlock, something neither one dared to say in those final few days when it should have been said.

He didn't understand why Sherlock did what he did. Whenever John complained about what the papers were saying, especially when they were implying there was something between the two men, another subject that now rubbed John sore, Sherlock never cared. It wasn't important to him what people felt, what they thought about the great Sherlock Holmes, he cared about figuring out the case and being right. If everyone thought Sherlock was a fraud, John would have stood there proving every single accusation to be a lie. Richard Brooks was the fake; Moriarty was the real killer and he had somehow caused Sherlock to forget everything he used to think and jump.

***************************************

John found himself sitting at Sherlock's headstone, a bunch of daisies clasped in his trembling hand. He sat because his leg hurt too much to stand for too long and his cane lay next to him. He had spent days at the graveyard, talking to Sherlock's headstone, once kicking it in anger. He heard Sherlock's voice in his head telling him it was all psychosomatic but John didn't care. He placed the flowers on the headstone, brushing a leaf off the cool black marble as he did so. It didn't matter to him that by the next day the flowers would be gone because John was used to that, used to bringing fresh ones because Sherlock deserved that. _There's something else you wanted to say _. He stared at the words etched into the headstone, bearing the name of his best friend and the man he loved. It was ok to admit that in his head, ok to let himself know it was true, but he couldn't ever utter the words because that would make them real. He knew if he had told anyone, even Mrs. Hudson who probably knew anyway, even Molly who met him once a week for tea; it would tear the hole he'd tried to repair in his heart wide open.__

He leaned against the side of the headstone and closed his eyes, the sum warming his face. He thought back to that day, back to the last conversation he and Sherlock would ever have. He'd yelled at Sherlock, he'd been hurt at how Sherlock had talked to him, though how it was any different he couldn't tell. He'd left to go check on Mrs. Hudson and when he found her alive, he knew, he knew something rather awful was about to happen. So he ran, he flagged a taxi and urged the driver on through shouting and a litany of swear words he'd never dare utter around anyone else, but this was Sherlock and this was important. When he'd jumped out of the taxi and Sherlock called him, he'd known it couldn't be good. "You're a selfish bastard you know," John said out loud to the grave behind him. "Leaving me here all alone, leaving me here to be accused of living with a sociopathic murderer and worse. Damn you Sherlock, damn you for leaving me, damn you for letting me see and hear you a final time, damn you for never saying it first."

That was John's favorite excuse when it came to Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't have emotions, Sherlock couldn't have feelings, and therefore since _Sherlock_ never said anything, John didn't have to. Oh how stupid he'd been. Maybe if he'd told Sherlock, said 'hey I'm off to buy the milk because you won't and I actually am in love with you, you crazy man' then Sherlock might still be around. He mustn't blame himself, that's what everyone told him, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, his therapist, Lestrade, hell even Mycroft had stopped by and told him. True, he'd yelled at Mycroft for a good hour and Mycroft stood there and took it, offering John a hug that was so out of character for the man John was shocked into pressing himself into Mycroft's arms and sobbing into his starched white shirt.

John opened an eye and looked around, noticing the buds on the trees announcing that spring was drawing near. He turned towards the headstone, resting his head against it and took a deep breath. "I loved you Sherlock Holmes. There I said it. I hope you're happy, I admitted it! Where's the therapist now, her and her stupid words can't hang over my head anymore because I finally told you that I liked you even if you left me here all alone because you're a sorry prick!"

John slumped sideways against the marble stone, breaths heaving in and out of him as tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes, no matter how hard he willed them away. "Dammit Sherlock! I loved you and you left me, how the hell am I supposed to move on?"  
**********************************  
Unbeknownst to John who was currently wiping his eyes and attempting to stand up, a man with sharp cheekbones stood behind a tree hiding in his coat, eyes filling with tears themselves. "I love you too John, someday I'll be able to tell you that, but now isn't the time. Dear god I hope it isn't too late when it's safe to show my face again." Sherlock watched from behind the same tree that had been his hiding place for months as John gathered himself and limped away from his grave. When he saw that John was climbing into a taxi that would take him far away from 221B Baker Street, Sherlock strode across the grass to his headstone and picked up the flowers John had brought.

Sherlock had been keeping them and pressing a few inside pages of the books Mycroft had brought to the hideout he had procured for his brother. Of course, Mycroft had helped Sherlock when he came to him. Something Moriarty apparently never expected. Sherlock figured that Moriarty knew of the constant bickering between the two brothers so he had chosen the three people that would get a response out of Sherlock. Mycroft had been initially upset with Sherlock for not telling John, but understood his brother wanting to keep the man safe. He had discouraged Sherlock from watching John in the graveyard, but had still installed the camera into John's flat that alerted Sherlock when John would be visiting the grave.

It tore Sherlock up to see John sitting there, to watch his limp return, to watch the tears fall down the man's face as he talked to the headstone, spilling his secrets to the one person he thought would never hear them. It took everything Sherlock had to not leave his hiding place, to wrap John in his arms and promise to never let him go, but Sherlock knew he had to rein these feelings in. Feelings just got in the way. At least that's what he'd told John anyway, what he told everyone in fact. John had stated that as the reason for him never telling Sherlock how he felt because he didn't want to hear or see the rejection. Sherlock regretted the words he had said, mainly to try and force him to not have these feelings for his friend, but no matter what, even in the end Sherlock's heart had ruled over his mind. Even as he dialed John's number on his cell phone his heart had been thumping in his chest and his brain had been telling him to stop, to disconnect the line immediately. Sherlock had to tell John something, he couldn't bear to leave him with nothing at all. Sometimes Sherlock wondered if this was worse.  
********************************  
John opened the door to his flat, heaving himself on the bed, feeling worse than ever. His phone buzzed and he stared at it blankly, not caring who was texting. The phone continued to buzz every five minutes until John finally picked it up to see three new messages from Molly. _John, saw you at the graveyard. Tea? Same place and time. John, don't ignore me, you need to talk. John, I swear if you do not answer me I will come to your flat and pour the pot on your head_. John smiled at the texts; Molly was the only one keeping her head about her shoulders instead of moping about. Even Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade seemed lost without Sherlock. _Molly, I got your text. Be by for tea same t &p._ John shot the quick message off and headed for the shower pulling his jumper over his head as he went. "Well old man, it seems that since you finally admitted it to yourself that you could go move your things out of 221B now couldn't you?" John spoke to his image in the mirror, noticing the grey hairs that had added themselves to his head and the wrinkles forming around his mouth.

He stepped into the shower, thankful for the hot water to soothe his muscles. He'd sat out by Sherlock's grave a lot longer than usual, silence being a nice break from the noises surrounding his flat. He soaped up and let the water run off of him, trying to force his mind to go through a mental map of 221B so that he could quickly pack his things and never return.  
******************************************  
John arrived at Molly's at a quarter to three, feeling better than he had in weeks. "Talking to Sherlock finally did you some good John?" Molly queried, pouring cups for the both of them.

John gave a small laugh as he took his cup from her. "I finally told him a few things I thought I'd never actually say out loud."

"You did, did you? Finally told him how you feel?" Molly looked at him with a sad sort of smile on her face, compassion showing in her eyes.

"Yeah, lot of good it does me now though. Doesn't matter anyway, he'd have still jumped if he knew how I felt."

"Well I guess we'll never know, it is Sherlock. At least you have the comfort of knowing he loved you back."

John almost choked on his tea, and looked at Molly with a shocked expression. "What are you on about? Sherlock didn't like anyone! Remember his little speech about how feelings just got in the way of his genius?"

Molly just smiled and laid her teacup on the saucer. "John dear, I was smitten with Sherlock long before you came along and trust me you, he never looked at me, or anyone actually, the way he looked at you. Sherlock was taken with you; he just tried to hide it behind smart comments and degradation. I told him once that I saw the way he looked at you when he thought you couldn't see. He just gave me this sad smile, like he knew something was going to happen and he didn't want to be with you if it ended, well like it did."

"Molly, he was an absolute menace to me! If he liked me wouldn't I have noticed? Or someone, no offense but, other than you?"

"They did," Molly stated and pushed an old copy of a tabloid towards him. "Bachelor John Watson, Watson and Sherlock living together, always together? Read any of these? There's a picture in this one John, a picture that I swear I don't know how anyone caught Sherlock Holmes that off-guard but they did and well, just look for yourself." Molly flipped open the paper and pointed to a picture of Sherlock in that ridiculous deerstalker John had grown quite fond of. John looked at it and saw that what Molly had said was quite true, there was no way there was a picture of Sherlock like that in existence anywhere else. His eyes were trained on John who was speaking and the look Sherlock had showed that no matter what he ever said about John Watson; Sherlock Holmes was head over heels for John.

John sat back in the chair, heart racing as he tore his eyes away from the photo. "What does it matter now Molly? He's dead. He's dead and no matter how hard I beg and plead, Sherlock isn't coming back."

"I know John, but I thought this might give you a bit of closure." She patted his back tenderly, trying to reassure the man who looked like he was about to cry.

"Thanks Molly, I appreciate it. I'll see you around all right? I need to collect a few items of mine from Baker Street."

Molly smiled as John left the flat, tucking the paper she had nicely fabricated under her arm. She had taken the photo during one of John and Sherlock's arguments at the morgue after a press conference. She'd seen the look on Sherlock's face and grabbed her phone, catching the look right before it slid off of Sherlock's face.  
**************************************************  
John unlocked the door to 221B Baker Street with a trembling hand. He took in a deep breath as he pushed open the door and walked inside. Mrs. Hudson greeted him with a smile and a hug, pushing the door behind him closed. "John, it's lovely to see you. Are you here to get your things?"

"Yes Mrs. Hudson," John replied, starting up the stairs. "I had a nice long talk with his headstone today and then Molly invited me for a cup of tea so I decided to man up and come collect my things."

"Well, nothing's been moved, I just dust around his items, it'd break my heart to touch them. But you two were close, maybe you could…" She trailed off at the look on John's face that showed how truly heartbroken and worn down he was.

"Maybe another day Mrs. Hudson, I don't think I'm that strong enough yet." Mrs. Hudson nodded and sent John up with a sad smile.

John stood at the door that opened into the living area he once shared with Sherlock Holmes, the most insane genius he'd ever met. John opened the door and stepped into the room that looked as it had the last time he was in there. The yellow face dotted with bullet holes was still on the wall and a stack of papers lay on the table where Sherlock had put them.

John's fingers ghosted over items, barely daring to touch anything that was Sherlock's in fear of them fading away somehow. John's hand came in contact with a familiar object and he gasped as he jumped and knocked into the table sending a small ball rolling onto the floor. John bent quickly to pick up the ball and grabbed the familiar cell phone from the table. "Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted, heart beating against his ribcage. "Mrs. Hudson!" He heard her footsteps on the stairs and rushed forwards onto the landing. He looked down at the woman looking up at him and held out the two items in his hand. "Mrs. Hudson," he shouted triumphantly, "Sherlock's not dead!"

Mrs. Hudson looked at him strangely for a minute before rushing up the stairs as fast as her hip could take her. "What do you mean he's not dead John? You said so yourself!"

"I can't explain it, but look! His cell phone was on the table! He called me from it before he jumped. There isn't a scratch on it therefore he's alive!"

John pressed a quick kiss to her cheek before grabbing his jacket and heading out the door. "I'm off to see Lestrade! We have to find Sherlock!"

John grabbed a taxi, his pulse racing as he came to terms with what this meant. Sherlock, _his Sherlock_ was alive!  
********************************  
Across London in a beat up flat Sherlock Holmes sat staring at a television monitor. "Very good John," Sherlock smiled, pressing his fingers to his lips. "Very good indeed."


	2. Chapter 2

John sat across from a startled-looking Lestrade. "Did you or did you not take Sherlock's phone from the top of Saint Bart's?"

"John, I personally had nothing to do with what happened up on the roof, but as far as I know no one turned in his cell phone. You know I would have given it to you if I had."

John grinned before procuring the cell phone from his pocket. "Good thing I went back to two twenty-one b then isn't it? And look what I found." He shoved the phone across the desk for Lestrade to look at. "It's Sherlock's. I'd know the phone anywhere. He's alive Greg, and he left this for me to find to tell me."

"Wait, you're telling me you haven't been back in four months?"

John looked down as a flush spread across his cheeks. "Well, no, but that's not the point!"

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow at John but kept his speculations to himself. "John, what if someone put it there and-" Lestrade was cut off by the simultaneous beeping of his phone and the one on the table. He pulled his phone out his pocket and read,  _Incorrect. Give the phone back to John._ Lestrade stared at the text message, his mind whirling. Numbly he slid the iPhone back to John. "You might want to take a look at that."

"What is going on? You look as if you've seen a ghost Greg." Receiving no answer from Lestrade he picked up the phone and opened the message that had just come through. _Congratulations. You have found my first clue. Now, I know you observe more than others so I've left a few more around for you.-SH_ John stared at the phone not daring to believe what he saw. "Lestrade it, I mean he, what is going on? He jumped as the phone beeped again in his hand.  _It's too dangerous to tell you where I am right now so you'll have to go back to where we first met for your next clue to find me. Happy hunting.-SH_

"He's set up a trail of clues for me to find him? Honestly, I don't know if I want to, I'll probably punch him when I see him."

"Yes, well when you're done with your inner turmoil go and look for him so the rest of us can have a go at him. You're not the only one upset with the man."

John grinned at Lestrade before getting up out of the chair and heading towards the door.

"Oh and John?" Lestrade said, catching John before the door closed behind him. "Give him a nice right hook from me when you find him."

John nodded and headed out the door, hoping Molly was still at the morgue.

* * *

John pulled up outside of Saint Bart's and rushed inside, heading straight towards the morgue. He rushed through the doors to find Molly packing her things for the day. "Molly! I found Sherlock's phone, he isn't dead and he sent me a message," John blurted out, words almost incomprehensible in his rush.

"Whoa John, slow down and tell me what's going on," Molly smiled, sliding her bag to the side.

John took a deep breath and tried again. "I went to Baker Street to collect some of my things and I found Sherlock's phone sitting there. Obviously since I saw him throw it to the side of the roof, there's no way it would be in our flat. So I took it to Lestrade to make sure they hadn't given it to Mrs. Hudson or anything and when I was there Sherlock sent me a message.  _Sherlock's alive_ Molly."

"John, are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! Look!" He shoved the phone towards her so she could read the message from Sherlock.

"What does it mean the first place you met?" Molly asked as she handed the phone back to John.

"Well here is what I expect. This is where I first met him. Have you seen anything out of the normal?"

"No." Molly paused to think, "Well there were a few microscopes I thought were out of place but I figured I'd moved them without noticing."

"Where are they now?"

"Over here," Molly said while walking towards the two microscopes in question.

John tenderly picked each one up, smiling when he found a slip of paper stuck to the bottom of one. He pulled it off and opened it, grinning at Sherlock's familiar scrawl.  _Very good John. Now, go talk to the person you replaced._

John stared at it, having no idea what Sherlock could possibly mean. "What is he going on about?"

Molly took the paper from John and looked at it, a frown coming across her face. "What does he mean the person you replaced?"

"I have no bloody idea! Why must it always be the riddles? If I find out he did this because he was bored, I will hurt him."

Molly grinned, shaking her head slightly. "Go home and get some rest John, maybe the answer will come to you later."

"Thanks Molly, but I'm not quite sure if I could sleep, Sherlock's alive and well, I don't even know what to do with that."

* * *

John found himself climbing the stairs of 221B sooner than he imagined. Now that he knew Sherlock was alive he didn't mind going in there, everything seemed brighter somehow. He took the chair that Sherlock usually sat in and looked carefully over the contents of the room. "The person I replaced? Bloody hell Sherlock that's all you could give me?"

John's eyes rested on the skull that sat upon their mantle. "Well, old boy it looks like it's just you and me right now." The skull grinned back at him, almost mockingly until it finally hit John. "The skull! Sherlock always said I replaced the skull." John hurried over to where it sat, picking it up gingerly and looking inside. He shook his head as he pulled out another scrap of paper and was once again met with Sherlock's familiar handwriting.  _John, either you're following my directions or you've come to throw away my skull. If you throw away the skull you will have to get me a new one. If you're on my clue trail, here's the next one. Go to the place where you find your sleeping medicine here after you've had one of those dreams where you call out my name._

John stared at the note, hand shaking slightly. How the hell did Sherlock know about the dreams John had where either Sherlock was about to die or he and Sherlock were doing things, well things no  _colleagues_ do. John walked out of the living area and climbed the stairs a bit shakily; trying to stave off the memories of the dreams he had often. He fumbled around in the drawer next to his bed and sat down as he pried the lid off the small bottle. Out fell yet another piece of paper.  _John, you woke me up once yelling my name, that's how I knew. Next you must open your laptop and find the message I left for you._

John sighed; of course Sherlock would have known what questions John would have asked. He grabbed his laptop out of the drawer that it had yet to be removed from and opened it up, typing in his password. He'd given up on changing it after Sherlock proved that no matter what he could crack it. The laptop came to life and John searched his home screen for any signs of Sherlock. The only thing he found was an untitled folder he was pretty sure had not been on it the last time he checked. He clicked on it and opened a document that held only four letters, UMQA. John almost laughed at the absurdity of this note. It was the perfect clue. He had mentioned it once in passing to Sherlock who apparently filed it away. John called the hospital to let them know he wouldn't be in for the weekend because an emergency had come up. He packed a bag with a few necessities and headed towards Baskerville.

* * *

Familiar trees and landscape dotted the countryside as John traveled the familiar road. He remembered the last time he had come this way, Sherlock had been driving and the ride had been mostly quiet with a bit of sporadic conversation breaking through at times. They had discussed the idea of the likelihood of there being a giant hound roaming the moors and had come to the conclusion that there simply could be no such thing.

John arrived at the Cross Keys a little after sundown, smiling as he grabbed his bag and walked inside. He tossed his bag on the small bed, ready to get a good night's sleep before heading to Baskerville the next day.

As John lay in the bed his thoughts drifted back to the day he first met Sherlock Holmes. When he had stood there as Sherlock explained how he had deduced that John was military John's first reaction was awe. If John was truthful with himself there had also been slight arousal at the man's intelligence. He had almost gone into shock when Sherlock had told him they were to be flat mates but he had agreed and was thankful to this day that he had. Sherlock had been barely manageable at times, but John had grown used to Sherlock's antics and found himself growing fond of the sociopath. As John thought about it, he realized that he had fallen in love with Sherlock near the beginning but it had taken him a while to really grasp the concept. He had gone through girlfriends, either they left them because of Sherlock and John's inability to say no to him or John left them because they weren't enough like Sherlock. At the time it wasn't that they weren't like Sherlock, they were just missing a quality here or there that John was never able to put his finger on. Under closer inspection during the nights John sat awake because Sherlock was playing the violin at ungodly hours, John realized that they had all been qualities that Sherlock possessed.

From there John realized that he preferred Sherlock's company instead of loathing it as Mycroft predicted. Of course, near the end Mycroft hinted at what John now knew; that John was fonder of Sherlock than anyone should be platonically. That night, after a sly comment of Molly's that had John thinking he had finally come to terms with the fact that he was attracted to Sherlock Holmes.

As John slowly came to terms with that, he despaired at the fact that he had somehow fallen in love with the one person that would never love him back. Sherlock had stated many times that he didn't have emotions, that they just got in the way and often John felt like Sherlock had deleted them completely.

But then, there on that building ledge, Sherlock had called him and John knew he was crying and that's what killed John the most. Sherlock was upset and John had been the one he decided to call. That was what John had hung onto for those months, the fact that Sherlock had called  _him._  So when John told his therapist there was something else he needed to say, she already knew what it was, but John could never say it. But now he had and now he was on some sort of goose chase that Sherlock was behind, leading John somewhere, hopefully to Sherlock himself.

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and warm and John slept longer than he had in months. It was the first night in a long time that his dreams weren't about Sherlock dead, but instead were about the two of them living peacefully at Baker Street.

John set off towards Baskerville, not quite sure what would greet him when he got there. He drove onwards, preparing himself for anything they could throw at him.

John was stopped by a guard who oddly, upon hearing John's name, allowed him through the gates with no more than a second glance. John drove up the path towards the compound, questions flying through his mind.

He parked and climbed out of the vehicle, making for the front doors. He was greeted by yet another guard who asked for a name and identification before allowing John through the door.

John walked down the corridors, looking for a sign of his next clue. Suddenly a door opened to his left and a young guard asked his name.

"John Watson," he replied, looking at the guard strangely.

"Oh, good. Doctor Watson, if you would follow me this way please." The guard motioned towards the corridor through the open door and John set off after him. They made their way past many rooms, some with nameplates and others with strange symbols. Finally they stopped at a large metal door that the guard unlocked with a series of codes and John thought surely this is where Sherlock must be.

Slowly the door swung open, revealing a lanky form sitting neatly on a chair in the dark room. John held his breath as he stepped forward and the guard flipped a switch, revealing the person sitting there.

John blinked as the face swam into focus. "Mycroft?" he exclaimed, walking into the room, barely noticing the door shutting behind him. "What are you doing here?"

"Obviously I am to tell you how to get to Sherlock. He told me you would show up here at 10:08am and," Mycroft checked his pocket watch, "you are a minute late, please pass that on to my brother when you see him."

John stared dumbly at the man across the table from him. "Are you meaning to say that you knew Sherlock was alive all this time and didn't have the decency to tell me when I chewed you out?"

Mycroft folded his hands and leaned across the metal table. "John, there are ears all over London, although I check for bugs weekly, I couldn't risk telling you then. He had to make sure it was safe which is why he led you on this path of clues. My brother could never do things the easy way you know; of course that's probably why you fell in love with him in the first place."

"I am not in love with him!" John spluttered but he could tell that Mycroft saw right through him.

"Of course not John, you are simply living in denial still, I see. But enough about your hidden feelings for my brother, which I don't mind by the way, at least it's you; we're here to give you your final clue. Sherlock asked me to personally hand these to you so that there was no possibility of anyone seeing the coordinates of the safe house in which I have placed him." Mycroft slid a piece of paper across the table and John saw a few numbers jotted down.

John tucked the paper into his pocket and looked back at Mycroft. "I guess I should thank you for this, though I'm still quite upset with you."

"Rest assured, I understand your anger, but please do send an invitation when you two set a date for the wedding."

John opened up his mouth to shoot off at Mycroft but the elder Holmes was already striding out of the room. "Good luck with your endeavors," Mycroft called over his shoulder. "And please, wait until you get him safely back to Baker Street to jump him."

John rolled his eyes as Mycroft exited into the corridor before him and padded slowly behind him. From his time in the army he recognized the jumble of numbers to be coordinates and he couldn't wait to get back home to a map.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here-in lies the smut.

John stood on the doorstep of the flat that Mycroft's coordinates sent him to. He hovered there, not sure if he should knock or not. He remained on the doorstep, debating with himself if he actually wanted to see Sherlock or not. Okay, so maybe that wasn't really what he was debating. It was more along the lines of not being able to decide if he should punch Sherlock or kiss the fool. Okay, once again, kissing probably wasn't the most reasonable idea, but since when had John followed reason when Sherlock was involved? John finally pressed the doorbell and waited.

After what seemed like an eternity to John, he heard movement behind the door of the flat. He could feel Sherlock's presence peering through the see-hole before he heard a soft thump and the click of the lock. John felt ten different emotions hit him at once as the door swung inwards to reveal dark shadows and hidden within them a tall, lanky form. John peered into the darkness before a strong bony hand grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him inwards while simultaneously shutting the door. John struggled against his captor but suddenly found himself pinned to the wall.

John fought against the form holding him to the wall before realizing he was caught and fell limp against the wall. "Are you done struggling? Two seconds of observation would have been enough for you to realize who it was and whether I would harm you or not."

John gasped at the voice. It really was Sherlock, he really was alive. "Sh-sherlock?" John gasped, not able to do or say much more than those shuddered syllables.

Sherlock released John's wrists and stepped back, flicking the switch on the wall, dingy bulb lighting up above them. John took the moment to swing at Sherlock, hurling all his anger and pent up frustration behind the punch but was surprised when Sherlock caught his arm easily. "You always punch first with your right hand and when that fails," Sherlock continued, stopping John's left fist from colliding with his nose, "you go with your left." Suddenly Sherlock doubled over in pain, wheezing for air.

"Yes, but you seem to have forgotten that pinning my wrists down would leave the most important part wide open." John smirked, realizing he'd finally gotten one up on the great Sherlock Holmes. As soon as the corners of his mouth turned upwards, John's heart sank to his stomach. True, Sherlock probably deserved that, probably deserved a hell of a lot more than that in fact, but John should have been holding him, not kicking him. John knelt to where Sherlock was sitting against the wall, eyes screwed up in pain. "Sherlock, I'm sorry-I didn't mean- I just, I'm really sorry."

"Quite alright John, I'm sure you believe I deserved it, most likely did in fact, just wasn't expecting it." Sherlock stood up, trying to quickly regain his composure.

"You know, you're right. You deserved it for leaving me, for faking your death, for  _calling_  me and lying to me, for making me  _watch_."

Sherlock turned and led John into the living area of the flat. "I did all of that to protect you John. It was the safest plan I had, I never realized the effect it really would have on everyone."

"Sherlock, that's nothing new for you. You weigh the probability of a plan succeeding and then do it if the odds are in your favour. You never calculate people or feelings into it. That's just the way you are and I need to remember that."

"That's not entirely true," Sherlock mumbled, dropping onto the couch and picking up his violin bow. "I did something very off from what I usually do. I called you John. Instead of just jumping, I called you. I couldn't just leave you there with nothing. You changed me John."

John sat there in utter astonishment. Sherlock had just admitted he had done something extremely out of character of himself and he was saying that John of all people had changed him. "Right, what are you on about Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed and sat the bow to the side, hands stilling on his legs. "Look, I've had some time to think since my faked death and well, I may have realized how different life was without you."

John pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. There was no way those words were coming out of Sherlock's mouth. John stared at the man across the room, calculating the distance between the two of them and the repercussions his next move could make. Deciding to sod it all, he rose from the chair, crossed the room, grabbed Sherlock's wrists and kissed him. "You stupid, stupid man," he gasped, not really wanting to take his lips away from the oddly soft ones they had just been pressed against. "You just up and decide to pull this giant stunt and you don't care who it hurts!"

Sherlock grabbed John's arm with a free hand. "John, stop. I did care. It hurt me too, it hurt me every time I saw you go to my grave, every time you wrapped yourself in my dressing gown, it hurt John. And it may have taken me a bloody long time to figure out why I felt like that, but I finally understood."

"Yeah?" John questioned, suddenly on guard.

"John, I finally understood that maybe, in certain cases, emotions are important. I worried for a while that I had come to this conclusion too late, but judging by your latest move, I was incorrect."

"Sherlock, this isn't a game, this isn't some sort of twisted chess match. This is me and this is you and I'm not just going to be some experiment for you."

Sherlock glanced up at John, "look, I know this is odd coming from me, and well I'm sure you'll have to help me along with it all, but I'm willing to try."

"Willing to try what? Sherlock, if anything is to happen between us, you're going to have to be clear with me and not skirt around everything."

"Fine. I want to try a relationship with you John. I calculated- you know never mind about that." Sherlock paused to find words that would explain to John exactly what he meant. "While I was in hiding, I realized slowly that I was missing something and I couldn't put my finger on it. Then I began to ask you to hand me things before realizing you weren't here. That sort of set the ball rolling, one thing led to another and I actually began to count the days until you found my phone. I knew you'd eventually go back to Baker Street."

"Wait," John cut in, recounting something Sherlock had mentioned earlier. "You followed me to the grave, so you heard everything I said?"

"Yes, which, as I was about to say, is what helped me realize my feelings for you John."

John stared, jaw working to try and say something when Sherlock pulled him down, pressing a kiss to his mouth. John reacted instantly; he would be kidding no one if he said he didn't want this. John melted into Sherlock who was grinning against John's mouth. John grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's shirt, pulling him closer before pulling away. Sherlock had made the first move, so now John was making the next. "You, me, bedroom. Now."

He slid off of Sherlock's lap, heart pounding in his chest as he thought about how long he had wanted this, never knowing if it would happen or not. He let Sherlock lead him to the small bedroom of the darkened flat, eyes roaming Sherlock's body in a familiar way.

John scrutinized the small bed, wondering how it held just Sherlock and questioned its capacity to hold the both of them. Sherlock seized John by the shoulders, pulling him into a crushing kiss that was heavy yet sweet, each man's mouth finding perfect purchase on the other's, then a battle for dominance slowly took place. Sherlock pulled away and John felt a tug in his stomach as he saw Sherlock's usually bright eyes darkened with lust. "John, I'm no good at romance or any of that rubbish, but I'm not enough of a fool to ignore my own wants, at least not anymore."

A flame lit itself inside John's chest as he grappled for Sherlock, pulling at the buttons on his shirt and kissing each exposed piece of flesh as it came into view. He pressed Sherlock down onto the bed, straddling him and pushing away the shirt to nip at Sherlock's collarbone. John grinned as a small moan escaped Sherlock's lips when John bit down on the soft creamy flesh beneath him as Sherlock pulled John closer, his hands running under the edge of the jumper John was wearing, tugging as to pull it off. John allowed Sherlock to remove it and gasped at the feeling of Sherlock's skin against his own.

Sherlock nudged his face into John's neck, pressing hot kisses and quick little nips along it, pausing only to suck occasionally at the skin, eliciting a moan from the man on top of him. Sherlock let his hand roam down John's sides, feeling the muscles of his back move as John pressed down into Sherlock, causing sharp jolts of pleasure to run up his spine as their erections brushed through layers of fabric. Sherlock slid his hands down inside of John's trousers, pulling him closer, suddenly craving the need for them to be pressed as close as possible.

John reached down with trembling hands as he undid Sherlock's trousers and pulled them slowly downwards. John drank in the beautiful sight of Sherlock's body beneath him, all of that pale flesh contrasting beautifully with John's tanned skin. Sherlock kicked off his shoes and trousers, John's shoes falling next to them on the floor before Sherlock began tugging at the denims John was wearing, needing them to be off John as soon as possible. John found himself fleetingly self-conscious about his body, but he remembered this was Sherlock he was bedding and if Sherlock wanted him that was all John needed. He shucked his denims to the floor and suddenly found himself staring at Sherlock, whose piercing blue eyes were traveling John's body, resting on John's erection that was straining against his pants. John allowed his eyes to wander to the edge of Sherlock's pants, wanting more than anything to be done with the last barrier between their erections.

Sensing John's hesitation, Sherlock curled his long fingers around the band of John's pants and slowly tugged at them, sliding them off and down John's legs. John snapped out of his stupor and bent to kiss Sherlock furiously, dragging Sherlock's pants off at the same time. His tongue darted into Sherlock's mouth, tasting the man as Sherlock pressed his tongue against John's while pressing up into John's soft body. Pants fell onto the pile of trousers and shirts and suddenly John realized that other than Mycroft and their mummy, he was the only person to ever see Sherlock naked, and was the first to ever see Sherlock this way.

Somewhere in the back of his mind John heard his phone ringing but there was no time for cells, there was a very naked Sherlock practically  _begging_ for his attention and he'd be damned if he didn't give it to him. John searched the room, cursing when he found no sort of lubricant on any of the tables. His search was cut short by the feel of Sherlock pressing into his leg and he couldn't resist wrapping his hand around Sherlock's cock, sliding his hand up and down slowly, allowing Sherlock to get used to the feel of it. "John," Sherlock moaned and John thought it was the most glorious thing he'd ever heard, his name falling off of Sherlock's lips. "John," Sherlock tried again, gasping in pleasure as John's hand sped up on his cock. "John, there's lotion in the drawer."

John glanced at Sherlock whose heavy-lidded eyes were falling shut. He reached into the drawer and pulled out a bottle of expensive-looking lotion. He smiled and made a mental note to send Mycroft who would most likely figure it out and John would be kidnapped for a very long discussion that is if Mycroft didn't already know and had sent the lotion as his way of giving them his blessing of sorts.

John applied a bit of the lotion to his fingers and slowly slid a finger inside Sherlock, his other hand still wrapped around Sherlock's cock. Sherlock moaned and pressed himself against John. John slowly slid the finger in and out, watching Sherlock's face for any sign of pain. When he thought Sherlock could handle it, he added another, and hooked them, pressing against Sherlock's prostate and causing Sherlock to press down onto John's hand. "John, that- that's my prostate."

If it hadn't have been for Sherlock's lust-blown pupils, or the fact that John had two fingers inside Sherlock at the moment, he probably would have laughed at the absurdity of it all. Instead, he slid in a third, pressing Sherlock open. He let go of Sherlock's cock and found purchase on Sherlock's hip, moving upwards to kiss him, simultaneously pumping his fingers in him. Sherlock moaned into John's mouth, a sheen of sweat beginning to form on both of their bodies.

John slid his fingers out of Sherlock and rubbed lotion onto his cock, the fact that Sherlock was watching made him twice as hard. He grabbed under Sherlock's thighs, bringing the man closer to him before reaching down and slowly guiding himself into Sherlock. He slid all the way in and waited, watching the quick rise and fall of Sherlock's chest before Sherlock nodded shortly, and John slowly began t thrust in and out. John bent over and flicked his tongue against one of Sherlock's nipples causing him sot moan as John kept thrusting in and out of him. Sherlock's hands sat on John's waist, squeezing the flesh hard enough to leave marks. John nipped the nipple he had been teasing with his tongue and then blew on the wet skin causing Sherlock to arch into him.

John felt Sherlock's erection pressing against his belly so he slid a hand around it, pumping it at the same pace of the thrusts in and out of the man beneath him. His free hand made its way to Sherlock's arse, squeezing it as he continued to push into Sherlock.

Soon they were a sweaty, panting mess. Sherlock's curls were pressed against his forehead and John's hair stuck up in several directions. He knew he wouldn't last much longer and would tell that Sherlock was in a similar state. "John, I'm going to-soon," was all Sherlock could get out between gasping breaths.

"S'okay," John replied, on the verge himself. A few more pulls and Sherlock was coming hard over John's hand. John himself thrust into Sherlock a few more times before releasing in Sherlock, a cry of the man's name escaping his lips.

John collapsed on Sherlock, panting and sweaty, eyes closed in post-coital bliss.

"That was amazing," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, causing John to laugh.

'I would bloody well hope so, been a few years I've been waiting to do that."

"Years?" Sherlock inquired, his head tossed back on the pillow.

"Yes Sherlock, years," John grinned, pushing back a curl sitting on Sherlock's forehead and pressing a kiss there. "Oh, and sod not being a romantic. I am and now you're stuck with me."

Sherlock groaned but John saw a smile plastered to the man's face. Suddenly both of their phones began ringing at once and John grumbled something about how people need to get lives and solve their own bloody problems, stopping short upon seeing the name scrolling on his phone. "It's your brother," John carped at Sherlock, grimacing while pressing a button to answer him. "Yes, Mycroft?"

"John, now that you're done shagging my brother could one of you please let me in the door? I've been standing here for five minutes now."

John went to say something about how five more minutes wouldn't kill him but Mycroft had already hung up. "Your brother's here. Put on clothes and come on, I'm not facing him alone." He stood up, tossing on his trousers and jumper, forgoing his pants and padding to the door. He opened it and allowed Mycroft entrance.

"You reek of sweat and sex. My brother must be an idiot for-"Mycroft stopped short in the small living room upon finding his brother, unclothed and making food of some sort. "Are you making toast?" Mycroft uttered, obviously not used to the sight of his brother doing much of anything save getting in people's hair.

"Yes. I was hungry. Now please explain why you are in my flat at such an inconvenient time. I know you knew it was inconvenient so save me from that bit of babble. What is so important that you needed my attention at this time?"

Sherlock had turned around to face Mycroft who was beginning to think that this had been a very bad idea indeed as he learned things he didn't need to know about his brother. "Could you at least put on a dressing gown?"

Sherlock scoffed at Mycroft but turned to John. "Would it trouble you to bring me a dressing gown from the bedroom?"

That's when Mycroft almost fainted. "I need to sit down," he muttered, making his way to the couch and sitting heavily. "Sherlock what has he done to you? You never ask for things of him, you usually demand them."

"Yes, well when one is in a relationship with another you usually don't demand things of them do you? Or should I ask Lestrade how you treat him at home?" Sherlock grinned as his brother nearly went into a fit.

"How did you know?" Mycroft asked before being able to catch himself from his brother's trap.

"Ah, yes so I was correct in that deduction. Now, if you don't mind, go back to your lover, or whatever you two call each other behind closed doors, and leave John and I alone."

John returned with the dressing gown and Sherlock donned it with the air of a petulant child. "John, I fear that Mycroft is here to give us the third degree on our relationship so I have produced a plan to help him understand a few of the basics."

John stared at Sherlock, trying to figure out what was going through his mind. "Right, and that would be?"

Sherlock smirked at his brother and crossed to John, pulling him into an embrace and kissing him. John relaxed into Sherlock's arms and reciprocated, catching Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth and sucking it in gently before they broke away grinning.

"Are you two done with your unnerving, yet ardent display of affection for one another?"

"Do you have any more unnecessary questions about the nature of our relationship?"

"No, I believe I have enough to go on. Now, if you'll excuse me I have more pressing matters to tend to than my brother's first attempts at a relationship. I fear for you John Watson."

"I'll take my chances," John replied, grinning at how flustered Mycroft appeared.

"Oh, and one last thing," Sherlock stated, "I will be returning to Baker Street at once with John and if you dare bug our flat, well, let's just say you'll have plenty of viewing material. I believe John has proven competent in his care of me, so it would be unnecessary to watch my every move. Have a good day and tell Lestrade I say hello."

"Lestrade?" John queried, looking between the two men.

"I'll fill you in later John, but I believe my brother is leaving and we have a bit of packing to do."

Mycroft glared at Sherlock but exited, banging the door loudly on his way out.

"Always the melodramatic one, he was," Sherlock grinned. "Do you mind helping me pack so we can get back to Baker Street?"

"No Sherlock, I wouldn't mind at all."

* * *

John finished carrying the last box up the stairs and placed it on top of the short stack in the middle of the living area. He glanced over at Sherlock who was sitting on the chaise, a cup of tea prepared by Mrs. Hudson sitting in his hand. John would have complained about having to do all the work but Mrs. Hudson would hear none of it, choosing to dote on Sherlock as soon as she saw him shuffling down the hall with a box in his arms. She had been just as shocked as anyone that Sherlock was alive and well.

John sat next to Sherlock on the lounge, automatically curling into the man, receiving a surprised look and a cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson.

"Please Mrs. Hudson, you expected it from the beginning I think," Sherlock's voice carried to where she sat across the room. "Don't pretend to be surprised. In fact, I remember the first day we were here you asked if John would need the bedroom upstairs. Looks like we won't need it after all."

"Sherlock, there are some things in life I do not need to know about and your personal life is one of them. But, if you two are happy then that's what matters."

"Exactly. And I'm sure Sherlock will be able to balance me and the job, he always has, even if he didn't notice it."

"Speaking of the job John," Sherlock cut in, "I need work, but I'm not leaving the house for anything less than an eight right now. So we'll have a bit of free time until one of those turns up or Lestrade needs me. I'm sure Mycroft has told him by now that I'm alive."

"Speaking of Mycroft, what was it you were going to tell me?"

Sherlock glanced over at Mrs. Hudson who was laughing into her teacup. "Should I tell him Mrs. Hudson or would you like the honor?"

"I'd love to tell him, though I found it quite obvious. John, Mycroft and Lestrade are together."

John looked at her with amazement in his eyes. "What? For how long?"

"About a year," Sherlock drawled, almost as if the words pained him.

"Waiting for the engagement to happen any day now," Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "They're quite the pair, but perfect for each other, just like you two."

"Quite right Mrs. Hudson, quite right," Sherlock smiled, placing a hand on John's leg.

And whoever was it that said Sherlock Holmes knew nothing of romance?


End file.
